The Big Book of HC Prompts: Hannibal Edition
by Haelia
Summary: A collection of Hannibal shorts based upon hurt/comfort prompts. A friend of mine feeds me prompts, or other times I find them on the internet or the tumblr-verse. You can send me some too, if you like! Please note, these chapters are ENTIRELY hurt/comfort, so don't expect much in the way of plot.
1. Introduction

**Introduction**

I like to exist in the small space where Hannibal and Will were, in some strange and dysfunctional way, friends - perhaps even lovers. Thankfully, my faithful friend and anonymous H/C prompter agrees. She has sent me a series of prompts to fulfill (mostly Will-whumping), and I have endeavoured dutifully to deliver. With regards to the chronology, these one-shot tales will probably be very non-specific. Sometimes, I will set a piece in a certain point on the storyline, but otherwise, you can imagine it however it pleases you: an alternate universe, or during a gap in the story that may have occurred off-camera.

If you, too, have a Hannibal hurt/comfort prompt you should like brought to life, I would be honoured to do so. Please, send it to me in a private message. My updating ability is sporadic at best, and my muse is fleeting, so I can't guarantee a prompt delivery of any new chapter, but I can promise to do my very best.

Please note: all of my work occurs within the _series-verse_ , with some callbacks to the novel _Red Dragon_ (the only _Hannibal_ book that actually featured Will Graham).

Thank you and please enjoy.

~Haelia


	2. Chapter 1

**Prompt:** Will recovers from his terrible fever in the hospital after shooting Abel Gideon. He doesn't sign himself out early. Maybe Hannibal prevents him from signing himself out early?

 **Submitted by:** hc-anon

 **Author's Note:** This is basically a short reworking/extension of _Releves_ (S1 E12) with an indulgent focus on Will's physical illness. I omitted the meetings with Georgia Madchen just to keep things simple, and also because I just don't care.

* * *

Alana's hair spilled over the back of the chair in chestnut waves. She was talking. Hannibal couldn't hear her from where he was standing outside the door, but he could tell she was speaking by the tiny shifts and undulations of her hair, the way she tilted her head for a moment. Then she was taking a breath, a long sigh, and the hair dipped low as she tilted her head back, then finally lifting again as she settled once more. Once she was still and quiet, Hannibal opened the door and stepped through.

"A hundred and five," Alana said without looking up. Perhaps she had heard the familiar click of Hannibal's Italian shoes, or scented his cologne as he walked in. Regardless, she knew who she was talking to.

"He was surrounded by doctors," Alana continued, "and yet not one of us noticed that he was sick."

Hannibal sighed as he took a seat in the chair on the opposite side of Will's hospital bed. He was silent for a moment, aware of Alana's searching eyes on him while he regarded Will. He watched Will take three breaths before he allowed himself to look at her. "We did notice," he said at last, his voice deliberately even. "But we thought it was his mind that was sick, not his body."

Dr. Bloom was not satisfied with this answer, and it showed in the way she shifted tensely in her chair, crossing one pale, stockinged leg over the other. She folded her hands in her lap and stared at Will's sleeping face. Her voice was just above a whisper when she spoke again. "All we would have had to do was reach out and touch him, and we would have known." Her pale gaze snapped over to Hannibal. "That's all. Just touch him, like a normal human being." Tears sprang to her eyes, but didn't fall.

Hannibal inclined his head and put on his sympathy mask. "You and I both know that Will is not normal. And he does not like to be touched." He folded his hands in his lap, mirroring Alana's posture but without any of the tension. He allowed his shoulders to droop ever so slightly in what would seem to be a hint at weariness, at sadness. He exhaled slowly through his nose. "Alana, there are infinite scenarios in which any of Will's friends or colleagues might have noticed, or not noticed, that he wasn't well. You did your best. You can't blame yourself for what you didn't know."

Alana took a breath to reply, but stopped herself when Will stirred in the bed, his breath hitching raggedly in his throat. Dr Bloom leaned forward, grasping his hand in her own. "Will?"

He didn't respond, but his body had gone rigid and his chest began to heave. He screwed up his eyes, his head thrashing restlessly, lips peeling back from his teeth in a pain grimace, as he fought with demons unseen.

"Nightmare," Hannibal observed, placing both feet on the floor and leaning forward. He glanced up at the monitor beside the bed and watched Will's heart rate tick up toward the 120s.

Alana leaned a little closer, about to try to wake him, but Lecter held up a hand to stay her.

"Wait," he urged. "Better to let it play out. Less chance of recurrence in the future."

Alana frowned. "But - "

"They will sedate him if his heart rate gets too high," Hannibal explained, the voice of experience. His own pulse quickened as Will whimpered in his sleep.

For a time, Alana was frozen, helpless as she watched Will Graham grapple with ghosts. Then, finally, she seemed to make a decision. She stood and leaned over him, placing one of her slim hands firmly against his chest.

"Don't," Hannibal reminded her, gently as he could.

"I won't," she said. "But I prefer a gentler approach." She bent at the waist and whispered something in Will's ear, something that she punctuated by rubbing a gentle circle into his chest. At first, he seemed to balk, arching away from the sound and the touch, but Alana spread her fingers across his breastbone and said, "Shhhh," and Hannibal observed a definite change in his demeanor. Building on her success, Alana shushed the next whimper, and again leaned down to whisper something to him.

After only a minute or two, Will had relaxed, eyelids fluttering as he shifted from one sleep cycle to the next, his breaths slowing, the _beep-beep-beep_ of the monitor ratcheting downward in speed.

Together, Alana and Hannibal watched until his heart rate had settled back into the low seventies. They said nothing for a long time, letting the tension drain from the room on its own, slowly.

After maybe ten minutes, Hannibal flicked a hooded gaze toward Alana, examining her face covertly. Her eyelids were heavy, her makeup rubbed off where she must have shed a few private tears some hours ago. It would have been near impossible for the average layman to notice, but Hannibal caught the subtle tremble in her fingers when she reached up to push a strand of hair out of her eyes.

"Alana," he said finally, just above a whisper. He waited until she looked at him. "You're tired. Go home. I'll take the next watch."

Dr. Bloom smiled a small, grateful smile that didn't touch her sad eyes. It seemed as though she might argue, but she didn't. She scooped up her book off the edge of the bed (Hannibal observed that it was _Great Expectations_ and surmised that she had been reading it aloud to Will) and stood, smoothing her navy pencil skirt neatly. She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and stepped back into her shoes. "Call me, if there's… anything."

Hannibal took his own book out of his briefcase and settled back in his chair. "Of course." He watched her go, eyes on the door until her heels had clicked away down the hall, and let his gaze shift at last to Will. Graham's face was turned toward him ever so slightly, eyes shuttling back and forth under the closed lids. His lips were slightly parted, as though waiting for a kiss. Hannibal allowed himself one brief, wolfish smile and licked his teeth, before slipping back into his person-suit for a long night of watchful waiting.

* * *

Will was swimming, engulfed in a sea of endless, blinding white. The stag was close. He could smell it, earthy and animal under the sterile whiteness of this endless nowhere. He strained upward, searching for purchase on anything at all, anything he could use to propel himself forward or upward or away. He was afraid he might drown if he didn't - indeed, his chest was constricting - but he couldn't seem to move, could barely turn his head to look around. He felt something heavy pushing him back down, down into the abyss.

"Will."

Something cut through the white. Just for a moment. Flashed through it like lightning.

"Talk to me, Will."

 _What?_

In an instant, the fever dream had exploded and Will's senses were overpowered again - the smell of antiseptic, the mechanical beeping of a machine nearby, the scratch and rasp of hospital sheets. Hospital. Involuntarily, Will gasped as his eyes popped open - _Where, where, where_?

A familiar voice to his right said something unintelligible. Will tried to see the speaker through his swimming vision, but he couldn't make his eyes focus. He was hot, so hot - but his skin felt cold and his bones shivered. He heard himself moan distantly and knew that he was shaking somewhere on the outside.

 _Nope_ , said Will Graham's brain. _This is too much_.

A black curtain came down and Will slipped away into darkness.

* * *

The next time Will woke, he felt more connected to himself. There was a familiar smell in the air, though he couldn't identify it. His whole body ached and he heard his own breath go ragged as the pain hit him all at once. He exhaled shakily through his teeth as the serrated pincers of a migraine pushed through his eye sockets.

To his left, there was a rustle of fabric and someone cleared their throat. "Will?" The voice was deep and rich, but tired and a bit rough.

Will blinked his eyes open, banishing the blackness as sunlight poured over him. It was warm, but did nothing good for the pain in his head. He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Hold on," Hannibal said, and Will heard his footfalls echo across the room. Something went _shhhhhick_ and then Hannibal returned. "Better?"

Will cracked one eyelid. The sunlight was gone, replaced by a cool, welcoming dark thanks to the heavy hospital drapes. A dim light was on somewhere, just enough that he could see the room and his guest. He tried to reply in the affirmative, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and his throat felt like sandpaper. Instantly, a straw poked him in the chin and he caught it in his lips, sucking greedily on cool water.

"Slow down," Hannibal warned, and then the straw was gone.

The room came into sharp focus, and Will stared owlishly at Hannibal.

Without being asked, Hannibal said, "Alana's safe. You're safe."

Unsure what to say to this, Will only nodded.

"You're very ill," Hannibal continued. "You have a high fever."

"I remember you saying that," Will chimed in, and his voice was so rough that it didn't even sound like his own. Hannibal offered him the straw again, and he sipped, slowly this time. Then the cup was gone and Hannibal was pressing the back of his hand against Will's forehead. Normally, Will might have pulled away, but he didn't have the strength. He just watched Hannibal's face with over-bright eyes and waited.

After a moment, Hannibal pulled his hand away and sat back down in his chair. "How are you feeling?" he asked, tilting his head in that way of his.

"Like death," Will croaked. "Everything hurts." He was bracing himself for Hannibal to ask what he could remember. He didn't want to remember, didn't want to dredge it all up, didn't want to wonder whether he'd killed Gideon - not now, anyway. Broken pony, shattered teacup - whatever the preferred metaphor was today, Will was certain he fit the description right now.

Thankfully, Hannibal didn't ask.

With some frustration, Will felt himself slipping again, his eyelids growing heavy even as he tried to find his next words. "How, uh - how long…?" He lifted the hand not tethered by the IV line, and kneaded his temple.

Lecter's eyebrows rose ever so slightly as he inferred the second half of the question. Then he glanced at the clock. "A little over a day," he said. "You've had two more seizures since you've been here, but it seems to be under control now." At Will's frown, he added, "This is not unexpected with such an elevated temperature, Will. And with the way you have pushed yourself…"

Graham swallowed past the dryness in his throat and pushed himself back into the pillows, allowing his eyes to fall shut. "I wasn't _pushing_ anything. I didn't even know I was sick."

"That's exactly the point. You don't take stock and you don't take care."

Will opened his eyes again, surprised at the nearly-accusatory tone, but he couldn't think of anything to say. Because Hannibal was right. When he was on the scent, that was all his brain had room for. His face fell to something like defeat, though it was heavily mixed with weariness.

Hannibal offered him a small smile. "Rest," he urged, and he opened his book again with a tone of finality.

Will's body would not allow him to disobey.

* * *

Once he was sure that the fever had not damaged Will's brilliant, beautiful brain, Hannibal left the hospital. He slept, showered, ate, and packed up a dinner to take to Will. It wouldn't do to have him wasting away on the empty, tasteless slop the hospital dared to call _food_. He felt a certain responsibility, of course, to bring him back from the brink upon which he had found himself.

He should have expected that Will would resist rescue, however.

It was night again when Hannibal arrived at the hospital once more. Alana had visited - he could make out the faint traces of her perfume as he came upon Will's door. Shifting the paper bag from his right hand to his left, Hannibal knocked twice and let himself in. What he saw then both surprised and thrilled him.

Will was half-standing next to the bed, fully clothed all the way to his coat and shoes, with one hand pressed firmly into the top of the little wheeled table upon which his hospital-issued dinner had been served and rejected. He was sweating, trembling, clearly at the end of his strength with just the effort of holding himself up.

" _Will._ " Hannibal crossed the room calmly, setting the bag down on the small table by the window and coming around to stop in front of Graham. Easily, he took hold of Will's supporting arm and eased his weight off the rolling table, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed. "What is this?" he asked, his voice deliberately level.

"I was… I have to…" He was gasping for breath and he shook his head. The arm that Hannibal was holding tensed briefly, twisting ever so slightly to shake him off.

Hannibal obeyed and released him, stepping back. He hooked a foot around the doctor's rolling chair and sat down in front of him, waiting. "Tell me you weren't about to leave."

Will threw a wistful glance at the door like a dog. "You don't like it when I lie, remember?" He forced a smile. "I think Jack's missed the mark with Sutcliffe… Something's not right." He closed his eyes, apparently wrapped up in the effort of catching his breath. "I don't think Georgia Madchen killed Dr. Sutcliffe."

 _Interesting._ "What makes you think that?"

He shrugged. "Just a feeling." He shifted a little on the edge of the bed, peeled off his jacket, and unfastened the top three buttons of his shirt.

In the shelter of Will's distraction, Hannibal watched him for a moment. Thin, breathless, and pale, Will hardly looked like the man Hannibal had first met in Jack's office - a lifetime ago, it seemed. He was always a wan thing, but with an aura of underlying strength… Now, though, he was like a beaten dog, unsteady and skittish. Hannibal wanted him pliable, not dead; he would have to fix this. Partially, at least.

Will caught him looking. "What?"

Hannibal exhaled noisily through his nose and leaned forward, quickly untying Will's shoes and tugging them off. Obediently, Will swung his legs up onto the bed and settled himself back against the pillows. Hannibal sat on the edge of the mattress, his posture open and easy, non-threatening. "I want to talk about this," he said softly. _Careful_.

Attentive, Will inclined his head, his face otherwise unreadable.

"I have broached this topic before, but I'll be plain now: I feel that Jack Crawford is pushing you past your limitations. He's using you with no regard for your well-being."

Immediately, almost as though Hannibal could see it with his very eyes, Will's defenses slammed down - an impenetrable stone wall between himself and Hannibal's accusation. "Jack isn't making me look," he pointed out, his voice steely. "I'm choosing to. We've… we've talked about this already, I don't - "

"He's manipulated you," Hannibal cut in. "He framed it as a choice, but he pressured you into continuing to work for him by playing on your guilt. And then when you were breaking, he backpedaled and pretended to be in your corner. He hasn't protected you like he promised."

Will's brows knitted. "What would you know about that?"

Hannibal tilted his head. He knew that Will knew about his conversations with Jack. There was no way he couldn't.

Will rolled his eyes, and then his gaze came to rest on his hands, folded over his stomach. "I'm not broken," he said in a half-whisper.

"You aren't broken," Hannibal agreed, getting to his feet. He held out a hand toward Will, and when Will offered his own, he examined the cannula that was still in place on the back of his hand. The needle was still seated correctly. Dr Lecter pulled the IV stand closer and reconnected the line. "I request a compromise, then," he went on, allowing Will to take his hand back once his work was finished. "For the immediate future, you need to focus on your recovery. Break this fever and get your body well again. _Then_ go back to work. I don't want to see you trying to leave the hospital again until your doctor agrees to it."

"But Georgia Madchen - "

"Is dead, Will. Her innocence or guilt is no longer a matter of any concern to her."

"The Copycat - "

"The Copycat will keep. In the meantime…" Hannibal crossed the room and began to pull covered dishes out of the paper bag. He took off the lid of the first bowl and allowed the steam to rise, the savory scent of the amber broth wafting through the room, drowning out the odors of sweat and stale hospital food.

Will melted into his pillows a little bit, cowed for the time being, his stomach rumbling audibly. "That smells good…"

Hannibal removed the hospital tray from the rolling table and made a proper place setting - soup, water, coffee if he wanted it. He rolled the table to the bed and heard Will's appreciation in the tone of his voice.

"You made me chicken soup?"

Hannibal smiled. Of course he had.


End file.
